No Smoke Without Fire
by TheFlowerOfTheOwl
Summary: Fantasy/action/adventure about the newest dragon rider in Alagaesia. Young homeless girl Méa, half-elf, half-human, has her life turned upside down when a dragon egg hatches for her- but not everyone is happy with this turn of events. Strange things are going on with Alagaesia's spirits and Roran's daughter is kidnapped. (No romance, light-hearted, short - please read and review!)
1. Chapter 1

**My second attempt at a story, based in Alagaesia with some returning characters, some new. Hope I manage to finish it, in some way, shape or form... Open, as always, to advice and constructive criticism. Also, I can promise NO ROMANCE :D **

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Chapter 1: A Loaf of Bread

Méa pelted down the cobbled streets of Ceunon, scrambling over doorsteps, around market stalls, contorting her body into strange shapes to pass through the crowd.

On the right was a narrow, rarely used alley (useful for escapes) and on reaching it Méa swung herself bodily around the corner, cutting back the way she'd come. She used the extra momentum to catapult forward and heard one of the chasing men shout as he dived for her and missed – by inches.

Grinning savagely, Méa pushed herself to run faster, sprinting on down the dirty, twisted slipway toward the docks.

Another right turn, then a left, and one set of footsteps still pounded behind her. Quickly, quickly; up a ramp, through a deserted warehouse and then a four-foot drop into the dockyard.

A large, rusted anchor marked the entrance to her hiding place, across the other side of the harbour.

Angry shouts followed her as she jumped on boats and gangways, balancing effortlessly. Triumphantly she took the last distance (from the deck of a low tug to the jetty) in a single bound, accompanied by the loud splash and shout of the final pursuer.

Méa quickly darted down a little backstreet behind the rusted anchor and through a wooden door covered in peeling blue paint. The building was an old, run-down customs warehouse full of forgotten junk.

For a few moments Méa stood still, getting her breath back. Then she eagerly examined her prize: a crusty, heavy farmhouse loaf, still warm from the oven and emitting the most heavenly odour. No wonder the baker had been so desperate to catch her.

Advancing further into the murky interior of the warehouse, she sat down on her bed (an old, tattered coat on the floor) and ripped mercilessly into the bread, desperate to stop the long low moan of hunger that was a constant presence in her stomach.

Méa was approximately half-way through the loaf when the door creaked open, and a tall boy walked in. He had a dirty face and hands and was wearing a 'white' shirt, and dark, ripped leggings which were too small for him by miles. His skin was weather-beaten and scarred. He grinned at Méa.

"Hey May, been stealing again?"

Méa ignored him and concentrated on eating. The boy sat down beside her and snatched at the bread, but was neatly evaded.

"Get your own bread," she said, "I ran flat out from the market with this."

The boy sniggered and tried again, this time succeeding in grabbing her wrist.

"Oi, Kat, didn't you hear what I said?" Méa wrenched her arm away whilst scowling in mock-horror.

"Yeah, I heard," He snorted. The two of them laughed.

"D'you know they're having a feast at the Hall tonight – at least that's what Lest said – I thought maybe we could do it, May?" He continued after a moment or two. Méa knew he meant stealing the leftovers from the bins, since there would be rich pickings. She nodded her assent.

For a while they sat in silence. Méa handed the boy a hunk of bread.

Presently, he spoke again, in a slightly strained voice.

"I went to the factory today, May." He said without looking at her. The factory was the abandoned hang-out of many of the kids who lived on the street.

"Yeah?"

"I saw the girls again. They asked about you."

Méa's heart sank. "What did they say?"

"They asked when you were coming with them." He said, standing up. "Is that why you let you hair grow?" He looked at her angrily, like a child having a tantrum, she thought. "You said you'd never go with them!"

Méa felt returning anger bubble to the surface, but she shoved it down, answering as calmly as she could; "It's too cold, there's no food, the water gives you diseases, the Queen's only interested in war, or peace or God knows what and to be honest, I'm fed up! What else could I do!"

"I don't know! Get work like me!" He shouted savagely. "Anything but that."

"Kat-" She started, but he was already out the door.

Méa scowled, got up, punched the wall until she drew blood, (it vibrated alarmingly) wished against all odds that he would just listen, for once, and then sat down again, wiping away angry tears.

Kat, she thought with a sigh, was perpetually angry, although Méa didn't really blame him – at least certainly not in this instance. Life had been ungenerous to them both, so it was fair enough. Méa was often exactly the same.

Orphaned at nine years of age, Méa had run away to live on the streets. She had thought to take a little money from her old home, but a month and a half later and she was cold, penniless, hungry and desperate.

So she decided to steal some bread. A certain market stall had seemed relatively unprotected, so Méa had staked it out for half an hour or so, before darting out at the opportune moment and grabbing a loaf.

But a shout went up immediately and a man who was apparently the baker's son (she had not known he had anything to do with the stall) had grabbed her as she'd tried to escape.

(These days she was perfectly capable of stealing some bread, she thought glumly, but then it was a different matter.)

Méa had fought, of course; bitten and punched and kicked and gouged bloody furrows down his cheeks, broken his nose – till he'd cursed her excessively but, due to her being young and small, it hadn't been enough.

Luckily, though, a certain young boy, perhaps a few years older than herself, had knocked her captor out from behind with a bit of old pipe and they'd fled down the street.

Kat and Méa (known always as 'May' by the other) had quickly become close friends.

But, at twelve years old she'd met 'the girls' (as they were called on the street) for the first time. They were, to put it bluntly, prostitutes: young, vulnerable teenage girls taken off the streets to work in brothels.

Most, if not all young girls who lived out on the streets went to work in brothels sooner or later, mainly because it was the only 'work' a disadvantaged girl could get (with jobs such as dockyard labourer being closed to them), and they badly needed the money.

Méa was, or had once been, quite pretty: she had delicate, somewhat foreign-looking features, a pale, almost luminescent complexion (perhaps rather muddied by the dirt) and big, brown eyes. When she was twelve she'd had thick chestnut hair that fell to her waist, which was a popular feature in young prostitutes at that time. (Méa snorted with some black humour.)

The girls had said she should work with them, trying to beguile her with stories of the money and luxury she would have, being pretty, young and (of course) a virgin.

But she, and Kat, had vehemently opposed it. (Obviously.)

It would be, she saw, degrading and completely horrible. She'd told the girls no - over and over again - but they'd kept coming back. She tried avoiding them, but it hadn't worked. So, in a final desperate measure, she resolved to make herself ugly.

In order to do this, she had stolen a dagger (a tricky business with a narrow escape from a man with a rather long knife) and cut off her hair so it was above her ears. Then Méa had dragged the point of the dagger across her left cheek, just below the eye, which bled profusely and later scarred.

It had worked, and for two years she'd been happy enough, finding just enough food to live on and enjoying her friendship with Kat. However, conditions in the city worsened, and she (like many others) had become desperately, desperately desperate.

So she'd contacted the girls, knowing that without a doubt she would lose her own integrity and Kat's friendship, once and for all, if she went through with it.

But then maybe she'd have enough money to survive.

The day drew on to evening and Méa sat still as a statue in the disused warehouse. The light's last rays fled the night and bloody sunset raged in the sky. Méa's mind wondered, equal in uncertainty and despair.

Later, and loud voices outside startled her from her thoughts. There came a loud shuffling noise and raucous laughter. Someone collided with the flimsy corrugated iron wall.

"Did you hear there's a feast tonight, at the hall?" said a man.

"Really? Ha!"

"Yes, I have it on good authority, and what's more, they say it's in honour of a dragon egg from those blasted creatures yonder." Came the sarcastic reply, along with confused gesturing.

"You mean the elves?" One man chipped in languidly.

"YesImeantheelvesyoufool!" The first man spluttered indignantly.

"A dragon egg, here?"

"Ha! Mate, I'm sure that's not for us mortals to wonder!"

The men started laughing drunkenly, but Méa wasn't listening.

Three thoughts came in quick succession: Should she go and try to talk to Kat? Was she so naïve as to think he would listen? (No.) Was she very hungry again? (Yes.)

Moments later, Méa was out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Worth Stealing**

Méa was walking down a narrow, winding street at the eastern end of the city. The walls either side of her had very few windows and reached so far upwards that when she craned her head back, she could only see a small sliver of the starry sky between them.

After the final corner of the street Méa was confronted with a particularly high brick wall. This was in fact the outer wall of the city. Here there was one path that lead left, towards the main gate, and another path to the right, that lead to a dead end and a nondescript door. It was this door through which the leftovers would be deposited for collection the next day.

Méa went and leaned against the wall, content to simply stand and wait for Kat.

By and by there was some commotion at the end of the path that lead left: a large group of men, one of which brandished a spear, were shouting and gesticulating violently. The path let out by the gatehouse, and you could clearly see the area directly behind the portcullis where the men were gathering. A loud grinding noise signified the opening of the gate.

Now this was interesting, thought Méa. The gates always closed for the night at sunset and it was very unusual for them to be opened again before dawn. Curious, Méa walked a little way up the alleyway to see what was going on.

Without warning, a beautiful white horse, upon which was mounted a cloaked traveller, trotted into the city. The sleekly muscled animal swished its tail as it came to a stop, its path blocked by the men. Méa noticed that the traveller was riding bareback.

The man with the spear jabbed viciously towards the unwelcome pair, and the horse pranced backwards. The rider gestured, obviously angry at being denied passage further, but the men didn't yield. Méa ventured further forward to hear what was being said, keeping to the shadows.

Presently the rider drew back the hood of his cloak and raised his hands in a gesture of good faith. Méa couldn't see his face, but it was clearly significant because one of the men gasped, whilst the others became openly hostile, raising fists and drawing weapons.

"An elf," a man muttered into his beard.

"I mean you no harm. I have been invited by Lord Orvar," he said. His voice was smooth and lyrical.

Méa considered leaving her hiding place to see what he looked like, but decided against it.

The men gathered in a loose group to discuss, and shortly the spear-wielding man stepped forward and growled, "We want proof."

The elf inclined his head and replied, "I have no letter; my invitation was conveyed by other means… Let me speak to Lord Orvar – he will explain."

"Ha," said another man, "we know the rumours well enough, elf, but we need to be sure. How about you show us?"

"Yeah, show us!" said another man eagerly.

By this time a larger semicircle of people had gathered apart from the angry men, watching intently. At this turn of events they shifted forward and stared at the elf with concentration, waiting.

The elf said nothing for a few moments, and then took the small black bag that had been sitting in his lap and raised it to the crowd.

"Open it," growled the foremost man.

The elf did so. Within the bag was a smooth, heavy-looking stone, ovoid in shape and of a length just longer than a hand. It looked quite ordinary at first; a charcoal grey colour, but on closer inspection Méa could discern lighter grey and sliver veins, which occasionally glittered when the light struck them. The elf carefully replaced it in the bag.

Now that, thought Méa, would be worth stealing.

The crowd parted like water to let the elf pass.

"Méa?" questioned a soft voice behind her. She jumped wildly and swung around, absurdly worried that someone was about to attack her.

"Oh! It's just you, Kat." She relaxed and smiled.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Just me."

"I'm sorry-" Méa started hurriedly, but Kat interrupted:

"Me too, and I forgive you," he said politely. "I'll see you soon."

"Hey! Wait a second, aren't you going to stay?" She asked, confused.

"No, I don't really feel like it," he replied without meeting her eyes. "Bye." He turned and walked away.

"…Bye."

Méa sat back and watched him go, bewildered by his strange behaviour. But slowly it dawned on her; this was not Kat 'forgiving' her, this was Kat graciously ending their friendship – he probably wouldn't even speak to her anymore except the occasional 'hello' in passing.

Tears prickled her eyes and made silvery tracks down her cheeks. Her Mother had left her when she was five. Her Father had committed suicide when she was nine. And now her best friend had abandoned her – the one person she thought she could rely on!

Méa laughed bitterly. Well, she would have to rely on herself. After all, Méantha Líanasdaughter had never let her_self_ down!

Feeling slightly better, she wiped away the tears.

Suddenly, she had a wild, reckless idea: what if she was to steal that stone? Many thoughts raced through her mind. Should it be done? Could it be done? Méa grinned to herself; if she pulled this off, she would never be hungry again, and if she didn't? Well - nobody cared anyway.

Quickly she left the shadows and stepped into the street. Most of the crowd had dispersed but some people remained, milling around excitedly. Méa approached an older woman and said eagerly,

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help wondering, is it true there was an _elf_ here a while back?"

"Yeah, I saw him with my own eyes!" The woman seemed happy to have someone to tell. "And-" she continued, but Méa interrupted impatiently,

"Well, where did he go?"

"Go? He went to the Hall of course, where else would he go? But-"

"Thank you!" Méa cut her off brightly and turned away. The woman looked put out and humphed.

Méa walked down the main street away from the gate at a speed which conveyed 'going somewhere' but not 'anxious to get somewhere' to avoid suspicion. The beginnings of a plan started to form in her head.

If the stone was taken to the Hall it would have to be kept either near or within the building, Méa supposed. The place would have to be very safe, since the stone was very valuable, hence the people's eagerness to see it, their awe of it, and the elf's protective attitude towards it. And where was the safest place in Ceunon? The saferoom in the Hall, of course.

The saferoom was said to be guarded by seven highly skilled swordsmen, (although reports ranged from five to twenty) and have a door that fit so close to the frame that not even air could get through. It was rumoured that the walls were almost a yard thick and were protected with magic.

Some people even said that it was the securest place in all the human cities of Alagaësia, although Méa seriously doubted this. Still, she mused, every defence must have a weak point, and she was certainly going to try her hardest to find it.

By the time Méa had finished her considerations, she was at her destination; the dead-end and the nondescript door where she and Kat waited for the leftovers.

Towards the top of the towering wall opposite the outer fortification was a very small barred window. Kat had once told Méa that this was the only window in the saferoom, and that it had been knocked through when a dangerous criminal was once kept prisoner there, so that he could breathe.

Méa decided to try and find out if the stone was being kept in there, but first she had to work out how to get up there.

Méa studied the situation. The bricks which made up the wall were all flush and there were very few footholds, so there would be no chance of her being able to scale it. The window was also a long, long way up – even higher than the fortification wall. The fortification wall itself was also very smooth, so she would have to find another way up. Through the inside of the Hall was obviously a last resort; she would very likely be caught, and there was no ladder to hand.

Méa frowned and stared at the two walls. They were quite close together, maybe… Quickly she gathered her resources and jumped as high as she could up the fortification wall, grappling to find some tenuous foothold. For a single moment she clung flat to the wall, and then she flung herself backwards and upwards to the wall behind her, twisting in mid-air so that she turned face-first into the second wall, again struggling for a small purchase before jumping backwards again. It took five such clinging jumps until she reached the top of the fortifications and hauled herself over onto the battlements.

For a few moments Méa got her breath back, and then looked around to see where she was. And it was lucky she did, because she turned right into the face of a soldier wielding a spear. She threw herself aside at the last possible moment and drew her dagger as the spear passed through where her chest had been. Then she leapt at him and knocked him over, holding the knife at his throat.

Méa thought quickly: she didn't want to kill him but she had to stop him giving her away, so she'd have to knock him out. She stood up and placed one foot on his chest to keep him down, then kicked him in the temple, hard.

Where to put him, though? It's too exposed up here, she thought. Quickly, she dragged his limp body to the edge of the wall and rolled him over the edge so he fell into the alleyway, wincing on the impact and hoping it wouldn't injure him too badly, (or worse, kill him). What on earth am I doing? She thought for a desperate moment.

Then she went back to the task in hand, looking up at the small window which was now only a few yards above her. If she jumped, she could grab the bars and look inside. She swiftly gathered herself for the jump and grabbed the bars easily. Then she walked her feet up the outside of the building until she was almost parallel with the ground and before pulling herself up into a strange, contorted crouch on the wide sill.

There was no glass on the window, only bars, but there was no chance of bending, breaking or unscrewing them. Inside there was a small wood and iron door and a flagstone floor. The walls were bare and the only furniture was a small wooden table. On the table there was a carved wooden chest, and Méa saw excitedly, the black drawstring bag.

Méa tried reaching in to grab it but her arm didn't fit very far and it was out of reach anyway. What should she do now? She realised she'd probably already set off an alarm of some sort and so either had to run or think of something, now.

She cast around desperately and her eyes alighted on the soldier's spear. Quickly she jumped back down onto the empty fortifications and grabbed it, before awkwardly returning to the windowsill. Then Méa jabbed the spear through the bars, hoping her idea would work.

Hook the ties of the drawstring bag, drag it across the table, and lift it up; she coached herself through the motions. Once Méa had done this she pulled the spear back towards her, with the bag hang off the tip. She heard footsteps and voices outside the door and increased her speed, dismayed. Once it was near enough she grabbed the bag with her other hand and tried pulling it through the bars – but it wouldn't fit. She pulled the stone out of the bag, almost dropping it in her haste, as the lock turned in the door. This time it came through.

The first soldier in the room shouted and ran towards her, his sword outstretched. Not thinking, she stabbed him in the gut with the spear and then sprang backwards into mid-air, laughing with exhilaration at the fall.

In the process of the jump she dropped the stone, but didn't have time to think about it because she hit the ground jarringly just a moment later, rolling at the impact and then coming to her feet. The stone was beside her, but to her dismay it had cracked; broken.

But no time for thinking – Méa scooped up the stone and pieces before sprinting down the alleyway away from the Hall, hoping that no-one was pursuing her yet. Dipping in and out of alleyways, up and down steps and through abandoned buildings she fled triumphantly in the night.

Eventually Méa found herself back at the derelict warehouse she called home, just as before (although, she thought with amusement, the prize was a little better than a loaf of bread this time!) There she lay panting, collapsed on the floor and unable to think for some minutes.

Had anyone followed her? No, she didn't think so, although some people she passed had given her strange looks. She stared at the ceiling until her breathlessness subsided.

In the silence she heard a noise; a small scuffling. She pushed herself into sitting position and looked around, seeking the source of the sound. Her eyes alighted uneasily on the stone. But not a stone, she realised slowly, an egg.

A dragon egg.

For there was a dragon crawling in the wreckage of the stone, snuffling this way and that, looking for its mother, she supposed. Its scales were the same stormy grey colour of the egg, and it had almost translucent ashen wings. Its underbelly and head were more of steely and silvery colour she noticed with wonder. It had bright, intelligent blue eyes.

Her hands shook slightly as she watched it struggle free of the membranes encasing it, and she found she almost wanted to help it - although she didn't dare. It was endearingly unsteady on its feet as it awkwardly unfurled its wings and jumped clumsily towards her. She backed away nervously.

Slowly the memory of the drunken men's conversation earlier in the day came back to her. Why hadn't she realised? She was so wrapped up in her own affairs that she'd been completely deaf to the world around her. And now look what she'd done! Méa reflected angrily.

She'd stolen a dragon egg.

Oh, they would be furious with her - and searching desperately, Méa was sure. They'd lock her up or maybe even hang her. But there was nothing she could do; she would have to take the dragon back or she'd get caught and probably even more severely punished. Drawing herself up, Méa carefully approached the small dragon hatchling, intending to pick it up. But as she reached towards the creature it sprang at her and bit her hand.

"Ow!" she exclaimed, clenching her fist to try and stop the bleeding. But after a moment she realised it wasn't bleeding. Méa unclenched her fist and saw that upon her right hand, in the palm, was a silvery oval mark which itched uncomfortably. What on earth is that? She wondered, concerned.

Méa stared at the dragon. Her mind felt bizarrely clouded.

Hoping that the strange mark would wash off later, she attempted again to pick up the hatchling. This time it didn't seem to mind, however, and settled happily in her arms.

Taking a deep breath, Méa moved towards the door and opened it. Then she started running through the almost deserted streets, afraid to slow down in case someone tried to stop her. People shouted with amazement and fear. Once she encountered a soldier, but he was too flabbergasted to try to stop her and she barged on towards the Hall.

Once Méa reached the door she stopped, catching her breath. Then she plucked up some courage and rung the bell. A man who was clearly important answered, obviously too eager for news to wait for a servant to do it for him. For a moment his face was the picture of disbelief, eyes wide, jaw slack, but then he became angry.

"I'm sorry-" Méa began, but the man grabbed her and shoved her inside, through a door and into a large, grand and well-lit space, which Méa realised must be the banquet room.

"Oi, you lot!" shouted the man, indicating that a small group of guards should come and hold her. Then he turned to Méa and said menacingly, "Give that dragon to me."

Méa was about to do just that when a mellifluous voice sounded behind her. The voice of the elf, Méa realised apprehensively.

"I don't think that will be necessary." He said, walking around in front of her. He glanced meaningfully at the guards and they immediately stepped away, leaving her alone in front of the elf. She looked at him fearfully.

He was very tall, and appeared to be strong although he had a slim build. He was dressed in black leather and battered leggings, with a sword belted at his waist. He had a face of fierce, wild beauty; high slanted cheekbones and upswept eyebrows, with eyes of that singular shade of blue that is the sky before winter twilight. His raven hair was the darkest Méa had ever seen.

But despite his untamed, tempestuous beauty, his face was expressionless. He addressed her directly: "Show me your hands."

"Why?" Méa asked, confused and clutching the dragon almost like a shield.

"Show me."

Méa stooped to place the dragon on the floor without looking away from him. Then she extended her hands, palm downward, towards him.

"Turn them over." He said. She did so, exposing the silvery mark. The elf seemed to take a breath and release it, although his expression remained inscrutable.

"What is your name?" he asked quietly.

"Méa." She replied.

The elf suddenly smiled radiantly at her, so that she couldn't help but smile back.

"Well Méa, come with me." He turned and walked away a few steps, but Méa didn't move. He turned back to her. "And bring your dragon, please."

**A/N: taking a Haitus, may not return, sorry**


End file.
